The Passionate Pilgrim

“I see. Then perhaps a lesson or two in civility would not come amiss, do you think?”

There was no time to escape Sir Rhyan, for the scent of him already filled her nostrils as his mouth covered hers, and her lips had already begun to search for more.

Like a dry moorland fire roaring out of control, the kiss caught them both unprepared. Merielle was enclosed within the furnace, responding with a white-hot intensity she had never experienced before. Involuntarily, she pushed herself against him, trembling in an agony of desire.

Speechless, breathless, she twisted away and leaned against the paneling, her forehead pushing against the cool metal rim. “Madness!” she whispered.

The Passionate Pilgrim

Juliet Landon

JULIET LANDON

lives in an ancient country village in the north of England with her retired scientist husband. Her keen interest in embroidery, art and history, together with a fertile imagination, make writing historical novels a favorite occupation. She finds the research particularly exciting, especially the early medieval period and the fascinating laws concerning women in particular, and their struggle for survival in a man’s world.

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Epilogue

Chapter One

Springtime 1359

If Mistress Merielle St Martin had had her own way, she would have been soaking in a warm bath scented with lovage and lavender. Instead, she had felt obliged to accept a wreath of pennyroyal for her aching temples and then to listen with convincingly appreciative smiles to the love poem read to her by the faithfully adoring Bonard of Lincoln. It was not because it was in Latin that her mind wandered but because the day had been an especially long one with so much to be done before Sir Adam’s arrival.

She stretched her legs along the bench in the sunny courtyard and arranged the fine woollen folds to droop gracefully towards the stone-flagged floor, rotating her aching feet and watching how the evening light caught on the stones and pearls of the silver filigree nutmeg-case. Its pungent scent had been useful in the steaming dye-house that morning and then later in the messy pilgrim-packed streets of Canterbury where the odour of sweat and filth was inescapable.

Bonard’s voice was conspiratorial, which went to show, she thought, how little he knew about her, for he had assured her that the poem was his own composition, written for her alone. He read in Latin ostensibly because he said it sounded better, but more truthfully because he derived a secret pleasure from saying to his employer out loud things he dared not say in English. Now he was almost whispering.

Poor Bonard. He had been her late husband’s employee and good friend and, for the life of her, Merielle had not been able to dismiss one who believed himself to be one of the family. Even though his position as assistant manager had now been taken over by a younger man, Merielle found him to be a useful chaperon, escorting her with chivalry but leaving her the freedom to make her own decisions without interference. She could never have borne that, for it was now almost three years since Philippe of Canterbury’s death and interference had not been one of his weaknesses. Far from it; her grieving had been more for the unborn child she had lost than for her husband.

The whirring of the great wheel caught her eye and she watched from beneath thick black lashes how the bonny honey-coloured Bess flicked it on by one spoke and eased her other hand away, attached to the bobbin by a fine strand of madly twisting yarn. The maid caught her mistress’s eye and shot a quick look heavenwards, which she knew Master Bonard would not see for he wore a red scarf tied across one eye.

“Oh, do take it off, Bonard,” Merielle said, gently. “How can you possibly read with one eye in this light?”

He swivelled his head in an exaggerated arc to see her, the words Vultum Dioneum dying on his lips.

“And what’s this goddess’s reward, then, for heaven’s sake?” As if she didn’t know.

His mouth dropped open as his papers sank to his lap. “You…you understand it, mistress?”

Merielle sighed, smoothing the soft green fabric over her thighs. She had not meant to let that out. Preventing a further explanation, a diversion of sounds turned their heads towards the covered walkway that bordered the courtyard and Merielle swung her legs down, ready to stand at Sir Adam’s entrance, her hands already welcoming. The gesture was not wasted, but it was not the expected brother-in-law.

“Gervase. You’re back already?”

“I came immediately. Scarce had time to brush the dust off.”

Two lies at once, but she smiled her sweetest. “I’m flattered, sir. Welcome. Have you eaten?”

Gervase of Caen was one of those responsible for the supplies of food that passed through the king’s household each day. Such a man never went unfed for long, not in any sense of the word. He took her hands in his and kissed them individually. Slowly. Then her two cheeks. Then her mouth. His smile was intimate. “Enough to keep me upright, that’s all. What delicacies do you have to offer me, Mistress Merielle St Martin of Canterbury?”

An obvious answer sprang to her lips, but Bonard of Lincoln’s red scarf and baleful eye were rising over Gervase’s right shoulder like an angry sunrise and she would not ignore him. She swung their hands in his direction, prompting the handsome young man to remember his courtesies.

Gervase bowed. “Master Bonard, forgive my interruption, if you please. Another of your creations, is it? Ah, such talent. Will you continue?” Gallantly, he waved a hand, inviting the poet to resume his recital despite the discouraging retention of Merielle’s hand in his own. At twenty-six years old, his seniority over Merielle could have been taken for more than five years. His sleek fair hair curled obediently over the blue velvet silk-lined hood of his short tunic, a pleated and scalloped creation that did not, nor was meant to, cover his neatly muscled buttocks, or the bulge at the front. The pink and blue part-coloured hose clung to his legs and showed no sign of contact either with saddle or with dusty road, but his own fair skin was creased, and professed a world of experience in its folds which allowed him to ignore the attention-seeking red scarf and to quench his invitation with a subdued chatter against which the Latin stood no chance.

Merielle withdrew her hand, hoisting up the silver nutmeg by its chain, caressing its jewelled surface as they sat, pleased that the one who had given it should see it being worn. “You know that I’m expecting my brother-in-law, don’t you, Gervase?” she whispered.

“He’s not arrived yet?”

“No, I’ve been expecting him all this week. The second week after Easter, he said, and here we are, a week after Low Sunday and he’s still not appeared. I’ve been preparing and packing and tying up ends all day, but still no word.”

“Well, you won’t be travelling this side of Monday, will you? He’ll not want to set off back to Winchester again as soon as he’s arrived.”

“No, indeed. He’s not a young man, you know.”

He poked a finger at the silver ball in her hand, chuckling. “No, he’s not, is he? So there’ll still be a place for me, will there, even if you decide to marry him?”

“Shh.” She smiled and looked away, nodding to Bess to remove the wheel and the basket of fleece. The answer should have been a firm no, of course, but even after eight months of pondering the question, she was still undecided whether to accept Sir Adam’s informal proposal or whether to continue her pleasant life with her own flourishing business and a flattering supply of male admirers.

That Sir Adam Bedesbury was amongst these was in no doubt, but Merielle was not so oblivious that she could not see the advantages to him of marrying his late wife’s elder sister and thereby obtaining an instant step-mother-cum-aunt for his nine-month-old daughter. His grief had been genuine, but had not prevented him, only a month after his wife’s death from milk-fever in July last year, from suggesting to Merielle that she might consider taking her place.

Emotionally sapped by her sister’s birthing and death in quick succession, Merielle had almost given in to the potent urge to take care of the little creature who had shown such dependence upon her mothering, especially since her own recent losses. But she had not been able to overcome her doubts then, and had allowed Sir Adam to escort her home to Canterbury with only an assurance that she would give the matter some thought—how could she not?—and that she would return this year to see her niece, with an answer. His message had arrived before Easter to say that he would shortly be in Canterbury on some business for the king, whose Master of Works at Winchester he was, and that he would be happy to take her back with him as soon as it was concluded.

“I’ve never bumped into him,” Gervase of Caen said probingly.

“I don’t suppose you would.” Merielle removed the coiled end of her heavy black plait from his fingers, then the silk ribbon that bound it. “He spends most of his time at Winchester on the renovations to the royal apartments after that fire.”

“Which is why the king stays at Wolvesey Palace, I suppose.”

“Yes, I believe so. I expect the archbishop’s palace is as well appointed as any of the king’s are. But Sir Adam’s manor is outside the West Gate in the suburbs, with a large garden and orchards and green fields beyond.” Her eyes roamed the shadowed courtyard, seeing the greenness superimposed upon the stone. Here, it was solid, comfortable and convenient, and she had converted it to her own taste during her widowhood. But it had not been her choice. The lure of a country estate and clean air was strong, but there were those here who relied on her for their employment.

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you? But what of him?”

Her sigh told him that the doubts of last year were still firmly in place, and the construction he placed upon it were typically masculine. “I can guess. The thought of having an older man in your bed instead of…”

Merielle’s eyes flashed wide open in alarm, showing him the startling blue-whites around the velvet-brown irises. “Shh!” She darted a quick look towards Bonard’s one searching eye. She knew his teasing. He would not have embarrassed her before her household.

Even during puberty she had never been the shy maiden but had suddenly blossomed like a luscious bloom and, at fifteen, had been eager for marriage, though she had wished that the man her father had chosen for her, a middle-aged but wealthy Lincoln merchant, had looked more like Gervase of Caen. In 1353, the same year as her January wedding, another outbreak of the terrible pestilence had swept across the country. Merielle’s father and husband had been amongst the first to go, leaving her rudderless but extremely wealthy and healthy with properties in both York and Lincoln and jointures she had not expected to have the use of for at least twenty years.

One who had come seeking Merielle’s glowing voluptuousness and statuesque beauty was Philippe St Martin of Canterbury who, although totally inexperienced in the ways of women, offered her youth, security, wealth and a comfortable escape from an unknown city of so many bad memories. Even now, Merielle could scarcely recall how the fumbling and inept young man had managed to father a child on her, though she could well recall his embarrassed jubilation at the news, and if that one act had been a disappointment to her, the thought of bearing a child made up for it.

Sadly, the future had come to a bleak halt when the overcome father-to-be left his newly pregnant wife to give thanks for the event on a pilgrimage to Jerusalem, as if it had more to do with fate than the physical performance. That had been the last she had seen of him, receiving the news during the summer that he had died from a snake bite in Sicily. It was then that she had lost the child, here in this great house, alone and very angry that she had made such a stupid mistake so soon in her life. Eighteen years old, and already twice widowed. She could still feel the loss, though these days it was being chanelled in more positive directions, given power by her wealth and business abilities. Her age and beauty were interesting additions, she knew, but a northern levelheadedness inherited from her father warned that these attributes alone were not enough to guarantee the interest of true and honest men. Indeed, she was quite sure that they were not.

Merielle had no wish to be seen as cynical or manipulative, but nor could she ignore the delights of being sought and courted, which had been lacking until now, to savour the freedom to choose without pressure from one’s family; even to sample, if she were discreet about it. Gervase was experienced, but she did not fancy herself to be in love, nor had she felt more than a warm excitement from being the recipient of his attentions, and though there were others in Canterbury who showed an interest in her, both for their sons and for themselves, she had not allowed them to come too close.

But Sir Adam’s suggestion carried weight, if only because his ready-made family was also her niece to whom she felt she owed some responsibility. Yet she was bound to admit, somewhat guiltily, that the lure of a motherless babe to call her own seemed to be a grossly unsporting bait to dangle above Sir Adam’s middle-aged and chaste bed. It had been chaste during his marriage to her sister, too, by all accounts, though Merielle had never been made aware of the details except that somehow, presumably by the usual methods, Laurel had become pregnant.

The suspicion which had leapt to the forefront of Merielle’s mind since then had sadly been allowed to fester unhindered by charitable thoughts, and although she had put past differences aside to be with Laurel at the birth, no confidences had been exchanged. Consequently, the grain of information that had been dropped about Sir Adam’s failure to perform had taken root at Canterbury during a visit in the year of Laurel’s marriage, and the delicious art of putting two and two together had been Merielle’s delight, even then. Now, she was unsure whether she could expect to bear a family with Sir Adam, should she accept him, or be treated to yet another inadequate partnership for the sake of her conscience. Understandably, her anger smouldered at the less-than-perfect choices before her, despite her attractions, and at that particular moment she would have given all she owned to turn time backwards to when her sister was still a convent-bred child of fifteen in York, unaware of the king’s wife-hunting Master of Works in Winchester. The rest of the story she pushed aside.

Her face must have been registering signs of interest, for Gervase, blissfully unaware of her musings, was giving way to an overspill of daily accounting that still impressed him by its size. “Fifty marks for nine thousand red herrings during Lent,” he was saying. “And I’ve brought you a lamprey pie, to bribe you with, of course. It’s with the cook.” He smiled.

In the moment’s silence that followed, they became aware that the flow of Latin had ceased and that Bonard of Lincoln was waiting for a chance to continue, a hope that seemed to be dashed still further when Bess returned with a tray of goblets, wine, and a dish of warm macaroons sprinkled with nuts and cinnamon.

“Please continue, Master Bonard,” Merielle said, pouring the wine. “This will keep our guest quiet for a moment. Where were we? Goddess’s reward, was it? Or had we moved on?”

Bonard shifted uncomfortably, scanning the page with second thoughts. “It’s difficult in this light, as you say, mistress.”

“Try,” Gervase told him. “You cannot stop in mid-verse, man. And why in Latin? Let’s have it in English, shall we?”

The red scarf jerked up in alarm but sank again under the level gaze of his audience. He cleared his throat, shuffled the papers and put them behind him. “The rest is not quite complete, as yet,” he said.

A deep voice called from the shadow of the thatched overhang. “You mistake, my friend. The rest you must have forgot. There are six more verses, all highly unsuitable for a lady’s ears. Shall I tell them, instead?” The tall man with thick dark hair stepped down into the courtyard, the low sun highlighting his strong cheekbones and nose, almost closing his laughing eyes.

Gervase of Caen rose, indignantly. “No, sir. Indeed you shall not. What do you here, Sir Rhyan? Do you have an invitation to this lady’s house?”

The man walked down into the courtyard and stood before them with feet apart and head back, his white teeth gleaming. “I thought I’d find you with a woman, lad. Saw you emerge from the ale-house a while back. Must get our priorities straight, eh?” He gave Master Gervase no time to respond. “As for having an invitation, well, that was for my uncle Bedesbury, but I’ve come in his stead. Will you be able to contain your disappointment for a few days, lady?”

Merielle was rarely at a loss for words. As owner of a tapestry workshop she had her need of wits at every moment, yet this was so totally unexpected that her usual civility eluded her, her only thought being that his uncle could hardly be blamed for tactlessness when presumably he knew nothing of her acrimonious communications with his nephew three years ago. Since then, she had met the obnoxious man only once when he had come down from his estates in Yorkshire to be at his uncle’s wedding to her sister and then they had kept well clear of each other. Nevertheless, she could criticise the man’s lack of diplomacy in taking his uncle’s invitation for his own.

“You mean to tell me that you assumed the invitation to Sir Adam to apply to you equally? I am astonished, sir. Is your uncle indisposed?”

“Busy, mistress.” Sir Rhyan’s laughter faded at her reproof. “I had business here in Canterbury and offered to do his for him also, which includes escorting you to Winchester. If you find my company too difficult to stomach…” He made a movement as if to turn away, then added, “But I could hardly discover your mind on the matter without speaking to you, could I? Was I expected to send a carrier pigeon, perhaps?”

His manner was everything she would have expected from one such as he, the man with whom cold and blighting letters had been exchanged through lawyers, which she had countered at a cost he would never know. She had tried to put it behind her, once she had won, but the bitter taste lingered with the foreboding that one day they would have to meet again and that the nearer she came to accepting Sir Adam, the sooner this would be. Sir Rhyan was his uncle’s heir and his visits to Winchester not infrequent. It crossed her mind for the second time that here was yet another excuse not to go to Winchester, but she ached to see the tiny moist bundle, and the negative thoughts dissipated while the haunting scent of babes lingered in her nostrils.

Merielle was tall, Gervase of Caen even taller, but this man was both broad and tall, topping them both with ease. She had been well aware of his strength: his uncle boasted of his nephew’s prowess at tournaments and her sister Laurel at his companionship during the first homesick months of her marriage, telling of his skill with falcons until Merielle had closed her ears, sick to death of their glorifications. They had not experienced his other aspect, nor would she enlighten them.

Gervase ignored the man’s rhetorical question and asked, for Merielle’s sake, “Did you arrive in Canterbury today, sir?”

“Good Lord, no. Days ago. Before Easter.”

Merielle found this unacceptable, too. “And you have only just seen fit to come and—?”

“Would it have made any difference? My uncle sent you word to say to be ready after Easter, so surely you’ve had time to prepare. Have you—” he looked around “—prepared?”

“As it happens, sir, I have. But would it not have been more courteous to—?”

“No, it wouldn’t. It would have spoilt your Easter and, in spite of what you believe, I had no wish to do that. I leave on Monday. Do you come, or stay? The choice is yours. I can tell my uncle…”

Merielle knew precisely what he would tell his uncle. That she was with her lover and doting servant and that she had no inclination to see her sister’s brat (of whose sire she was in doubt), or worse. Whatever he chose to tell his uncle would not be to her credit, she was convinced of that. “You will not tell Sir Adam anything,” she said. “I shall tell him myself. I shall be ready to set out early on Monday. There’ll be dozens of other travellers on their way home after Easter, I’m sure, so I shall not depend on your escort, sir. I have servants of my own.” The speech sounded brave enough, but the man was unmoved by it.

“Hah!” He turned to look at Master Bonard’s red scarf with contempt. “Your one-eyed shepherd? He had two last time I saw him. What happened?”

“Nothing happened.” Merielle came to his defence. “Tell him, Master Bonard. Chivalry will be a novelty to Sir Rhyan, I believe.”

Taking courage from her support, Bonard took a step forward, still clutching the twists of paper in one hand. “I have made a vow,” he said, “to use only one eye until I have saved my mistress’s life. There, sir, now you can scoff.”

The looks that passed across the faces of Sir Rhyan Lombard and Master Gervase of Caen were pictures of incredulity and pity, their reactions the only thing about which they were likely to agree on this occasion.

Sir Rhyan discarded ridicule in favour of reason. “On the contrary, no man should scoff at true chivalry, but have some sense. How much use d’ye think you’ll be to your mistress on a hundred-and-thirty-mile journey when you’ve only got half your vision to see what danger she’s in? Eh? What kind of protection d’ye call that? You’d be more of a liability wearing that thing. Take it off, man, and think again.”

Gervase agreed. “He’s right. Use your sense, or you’d be better staying behind.”

“Others do it,” Bonard said, lamely, looking at Merielle.

“Maybe,” she said, kindly, “but they don’t recite Latin poetry to me, Master Bonard, and I find that more acceptable.” She felt Sir Rhyan’s scrutiny upon her cheek and wondered if he knew he had exposed Bonard’s deceit and then protected him from scorn.

Master Bonard lifted a hand to the back of his head and removed the blindfold, revealing a compression of sandy hair and an eye that blinked with relief. He bowed. “Another time, perhaps. You two are acquainted, I believe?” Meaning Gervase.

“Only slightly,” Gervase replied. “My work at the exchequer brings me into contact with those who owe the king rents and dues for their land. Your lamprey pie, mistress, is part of Gloucester’s rent. They also give him eels three times a year. Sir Rhyan sends him…”

The conversation was leading them towards shaky ground. Merielle put a stop to it. “Gervase, there must be much that awaits your attention after your absence. Shall you leave us now and return to say farewell on Sunday?” She knew that Sir Rhyan would make of that what he liked.

“Are you sure?” Gervase whispered.

“Yes. Please go now. There are matters…” She offered him her hands and, to her relief, he kissed them, bowed, and left quietly, leaving the courtyard to darken with hostility.